


Things are shaping up to be pretty odd.

by Lucy_In_The_Sky_With_Diamonds



Series: Things are shaping up to be pretty odd. [1]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: 1960s, 1960s Music, 1970s, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, F/M, Hippies, M/M, Summer of Love - Freeform, Swinging London, Vietnam War, mods
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:27:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucy_In_The_Sky_With_Diamonds/pseuds/Lucy_In_The_Sky_With_Diamonds
Summary: Things are shaping up to be pretty odd, little deaths in musical beds...When Ryan had written that back in 1960 he didn't know how accurate that prediction was going to be. But if there is one thing this hell of a decade has taught him is that you must choose your own poisons carefully.





	Things are shaping up to be pretty odd.

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been a huge 60s and 70s devotee so this story practically wrote itself.  
> I've tried and stayed true to the order of most historical events and song releases, but in some cases I might have taken certain liberties for the benefit of the story. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who encouraged me to write this! I hope you like it :)
> 
> P.S. The song Ryan is playing on the guitar at the end of the chapter is Samba pa ti by Carlos Santana.

 

 

  **Chapter 1: I just need a place where I can lay my head**

 

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix. 

 _Howl_ , 1956. By Beat poet Allen Ginsberg.

 

..the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center-light pop and everybody goes 'Awww!' 

 _On the road_ , 1957. By Beat writer Jack Kerouac.

 

Things are shaping up to be pretty odd,

little deaths in musical beds.

So it seems I'm someone I've never met.

You will only hear this elegant crimes,

fall on your ears from criminal dimes,

they spill un-found from a pretty mouth.

Everybody gets there and everybody gets their way. 

 _Greetings to a new decade_ , 1960. By Beat poet George Smith.

 

 

**Venice, CA, June of 1967**

 

I'll never forget the first time I heard silence. True loud unavoidable silence. It hit me like a ton of bricks, sudden and painful, hidden in a melody. 

There are different kinds of silence out there. As long as you know where to look.

You can find it in a room when suddenly everyone gets very very quiet, or outside when the busy streets empty for the night. 

The stillness of the mind during mediation, a ritualistic kind of silence some might call it. Don't say I'm not down with what the kids are talking about these days! 

There is of course the absence of sound that comes from shooting up morphine, the one that slowly consumed my father's soul and body after decades of self inflected artificial peace — mind you with a little help from good ol' booze. A lying mermaid that makes promises about stopping your mental chatter. Zero emotional noise too. The whole package baby. And little by little you welcome a big dark nothingness that you didn't even know you craved.

The silence of the dead. When nothing really matters. Or so we are told. A detached kind of tranquility. 

Is this how Buddha felt? Why would he search for this? Why. Why. Why.

It's hard to explain how being engulfed by real silence makes you feel. Sort of like trying to describe what euphoria does to you and failing miserably. 

It's like being surrounded by people on a show while your favorite band is up there on stage. Knowing you are part of something bigger than yourself. You belong. Even if it's just for those sixty five minutes, you are home. Everything stops and for a heartbeat the whole universe makes sense. 

And if you pay attention, in the center of that loud crowd, delivered through the waves of baffle spit, there it is. Silence. With capital letters. The real deal. The silence of a generation that won't be quieted anymore. 

So let's talk about the true new age drug, the new _little death_ which has nothing to do with sex but can feel like a dozen orgasms piled together after a million years of celibacy. Let's talk about **music** which is, in essence, constantly trying to define what silence truly is.

 

*      *      *

 

The first two seconds of consciousness feel like what he imagines death will feel, warm and placid. Safe. On second number three his temples start pounding with a rabid headache and he groans. He isn't dead after all, there is no way even Hell will be that excruciating— because he knows that when he does die that's where he's going, no questions asked, no window for redemption.

He shifts slightly, not quite daring to open his eyes yet, trying to remember if any of his past hangovers has been this bad. But the moment he moves one of his legs a rush of pain overwhelms him and he chokes on his own saliva, coughing loud and opening his eyes with the surprise. Every single inch of his body is throbbing. 

He blinks a few times, eyes watery, mouth dry. A gigantic plant is hanging from the ceiling hovering over him. The dark green branches angry arms ready to strangle him in his sleep.

 _This is the last time I hire a decorator, waking up to that thing is terrifying,_ he thinks. 

He turns to one side and tries to sit down in vain. A horse must have been stomping his chest all night judging by how much it hurts. This doesn't feel like a normal hangover, not even like that one time he and Spencer got embarrassingly drunk on Mr. Hayne's cheap liquor and almost ended up in the hospital. Ah the mistakes of the youth. He only drinks whiskey these days, doesn't have much of a taste for any other spirit. 

One of the things this hell of a decade has taught him is how important it's choosing your poisons well.

His shirt is sticky against his skin. He looks down to check if there is any blood on him and his head doesn't like that because that's when nausea hits him. He starts throwing up before he can register anything else, all over the pretty gray floor. Except his house's floor isn't gray.

''Oh no! I've just cleaned you know?'' Without warning a girl appears in his line of vision, hands on her hips and a fastidious expression plastered on her face.

He's too busy catching up his breath to be able to ask any questions, but his eyes open wide with shock and he immediately starts panicking. _Oh god, have I been kidnapped by a fan?_

She puts a hand on his back and rubs it gently. ''There there'', she says in a singsong voice that feels somewhat comforting.

''On the other hand, I'm glad you aren't dead.'' She purses her lips ''I'm not sure how Tennessee would have reacted if I told her I had a corpse in our living room. That wouldn't have been groovy at all.'' 

He looks at her in disbelief. ''Who are you! Where am I?'' He tries to get up but he's dizzy and ends up falling on his knees. _Fuck my whole body hurts._

''I'm not a doctor but I think you should lay down,'' she scrunches her nose a little. ''I'll clean that.'' 

 

She vanishes as mysteriously as she showed up and he instantly starts looking for a door. 

He's lying on a sofa in the middle of what looks like a small living room. There are plants, flowers and colorful pictures everywhere — including a Beatles poster over the fireplace— there's an old piano in a corner and two acoustic guitars forgotten on the floor. He swallows. _At least I don't see a Ryan Ross shrine anywhere..._  

''I said you should rest,'' the girl pops up unannounced again, she smiles a crooked smile and starts cleaning the floor huffing and puffing, ''I hate men,'' she complains under her breath. 

Considering that she looks as petite as they come and that they seem to be the only people in the house, he relaxes, his limbs hurt almost as much as his chest and slowly but surely he comes to the realization that either he has been in a very complicated car accident or someone has beaten the shit out of him in the last twenty four hours. From past experiences, he's inclined to believe that the second option is the most likely. 

''Would you like a glass of water?'' she asks while disappearing with the bucket into what he assumes must be the kitchen. 

He nods and she hands one to him trying to hide her concern. Now that he can look at her closely he sees how pretty she is. She has dark blonde wavy locks that go down to her breasts kept out of her face by a flower crown, and big dark eyes framed by long and thick eyelashes. He smiles satisfied. Leave it to him to get beaten up by some ruffians but somehow end up being taken care of by this lovely creature. Ah it was good to be him sometimes. 

He drinks it all in one go. Water, tasteless water, definitely not what he needs if he intends to cure this curse of a hangover. Good manners insist introductions are in need before asking for the hard liquors though. 

''Who are you?''

She turns around and walks towards one of the wooden chests next to the piano, fumbles a bit inside one of the drawers until she finds whatever it is she's looking for, then she hops on it and lights up a cigarette.

''I'm Z,'' she says eyeing him down. Waiting. 

''What kind of name is Z?'' he asks. Surely she has a full name somewhere under those airs of coolness.

''A good one,'' she winks.

''My name's Ryan.'' She must know full well who he is. Everyone knows him these days, no matter where he goes. A cross he must bear. 

''Ross, yeah I know,'' she rolls her eyes and takes another drag. 

''So you are a fan.'' Of course. 

''Oh, Christ no,'' she exhales all the smoke at once ''I mean... Your tunes aren't half bad, but I'm not a _fan_.'' She pronounces the word fan with a certain tilt, enjoying some sort of private joke. Her slender legs dangle off the chest, a bit tanned and longer than you would think for someone her height. 

''Then what am I doing here?'' He doesn't mean for it to come out as harsh as it does. He genuinely can't remember a thing from the night before. He has had some pretty good benders in the past few months, but every time he woke up he could remember every single shameful detail. Not this time. 

She frowns. The sweetness spell now gone. 

''Don't you mean thank you?'' she is annoyed, borderline angry. 

_Okay maybe not that lovely of a creature after all._

''And why would I say thank you?'' Spencer is right, his people skills do suck.

''For not letting you die by the beach? For bringing you in and cleaning you up? For not calling the cops maybe?'' her right hand is tense in a grip and her face is now a dark shade of red.

Ryan has the decency to look contrite at least.

''I'm sorry, you are right,'' he sighs ''Thank you.'' He tries to sit down again, being more successful this time, grabbing the nearest crochet pillow and shoving it behind his back. ''I can't remember much from last night.'' _More like nothing at all_. ''How far away from Las Vegas am I?''

Z smirks. All signs of anger gone.

''Oh babe, pretty far. This is Venice,'' she clicks her tongue and blows a ring of smoke over her head.

''Venice...'' he says tentatively, ''Venice as in... California, right?''

''Yes.''

He lets go of a breath he wasn't aware he was holding, relieved that he hasn't somehow managed to end up in Europe without any recall of his travels whatsoever.

''What happened to you?'' Z asks while lighting up a second cigarette.

He winces. ''I was hoping you would be able to answer that question for me.''

''Afraid not. I just found you lying on the boardwalk, covered in blood and talking gibberish,'' she looks down to her feet thinking, ''You were beaten up quite bad, I was this close to calling a doctor...''

''And you just took me here? By yourself?'' he looks at her small frame skeptic. 

''No, of course not, Brian and the guys helped me out.'' 

''Is this Brian your boyfriend?''

She cackles. Really cackles.''Hell no. I'm no Beach Boys girl!'' 

''You're friends with Brian Wilson?''

''Yup.''

He feels better then. Technically she isn't a stranger anymore. Brian is a good pal, insanely talented too, _Pet Sounds_ is a masterpiece and part of him wishes he had come up with those songs. _The Beach Boys_ had definitely played a part inspiring his sudden change in musical direction. He wanted to move away from his origins, tired of playing blues, he wanted a band, he wanted to change the world one melody at a time. Or something like that. He hopes _The Raconteurs_ first album ends up being as good as _Pet Sounds_ is. Now that would be groovy.

''It was very kind of you to take me in and let me stay the night. Any other girl would have been scared to have a stranger over, even if said stranger is a Brian Wilson pal.'' _That Wilson has some weird friends._  

She shrugs. 

''I could easily kick your skinny ass if needed be you know. Also my roommate has a bit of a temper and she is a lot taller than me,'' she gives him a look full of meaning, ''besides you are not a stranger. Not really.'' 

He smiles knowingly. His face has been printed a thousand times all over the country.

''So you are a bit of a fan after all, even if you are friends with Brian and the boys.'' He winks, ''I am flattered.''

''Don't flatter yourself. I told you, I'm not _your_ fan,'' she looks at him with a hint of curiosity now.''You really don't remember me, do you?''

He frowns. 

''No, sorry no.'' He thinks he would remember her had he met her at one of Brian's parties. 

She sighs. 

''Should I? Remember you.''

''I guess not,'' she scoffs. ''But I would have thought I am memorable,'' she pushes the butt of her cigarette into an ashtray and jumps off the cabinet. She saunters towards him regarding him with more interest than before. She sits on the edge of the sofa and Ryan remains quiet, not knowing what to expect. Z leans in and studies his eyes, searching for something.

''You aren't lying,'' she confirms in a whisper, ''you really don't remember... Unbelievable...,'' she magically produces a wet cloth from a nearby table and taps both his cheeks with it. Being careful not to hurt him. Ryan welcomes the cold, relaxing into it, but not daring to make any sudden moves in case that makes her go away. She smells like cinnamon and lavender and he can anticipate the softness of her skin without having to touch her.

Z tucks a couple of his loose curls behind his ears. He is still getting used to this longer hair business, it still feels a bit odd sometimes. 

''What kind of drugs have you been taking that have messed up your memory this bad?'' 

 _All kinds of drugs_ , he thinks trying to suppress a laugh. 

''Did you take some acid from the girls in Santa Monica? You look like you spent the night fighting against trees... and that they won. Bad trip?'' She knows all about bad trips, she could write a bible about them. 

Ryan's face starts burning with embarrassment. He clears his throat trying to find his voice. ''I have never tried LSD.'' _It's not because I'm scared,_ he wants to add. 

For the first time that morning Z looks surprised. 

''I know I probably should... now that I'm... working on a new album, to open my mind and shit. But so far I've been sticking to grass and other usual suspects,'' he doesn't know why his statement sounds like an apology. 

''I don't think you should use LSD as an incentive for your creativity,'' she grabs his face by the chin and moves it from side to side to check his swollen cheeks. ''Sure it can show you the world in a different light and it's interesting, but a true artist doesn't need that.'' 

Ryan finds her naivety very charming. 

''You would be surprised what the inner genius feeds off.'' 

''I know that my genius doesn't need any drug to thrive. Drugs are fun, but I don't really need them when I paint or write,'' she lets him go with a sigh, ''I don't believe that nonsense that genius only comes along in storms of fabled foreign tongues, you know, tripping eyes and flooded lungs... That seems just pure laziness to me.'' 

Ryan doesn't reply, he knows she is probably right but he can't remember the last time he wrote anything good without a helping hand from his friends: trusty Mr. Alcohol and Mrs. Weed. 

She stands up and moves swiftly in a graceful pirouette to the furthest corner of the room. One minute later, _Rainy day women_ by Bob Dylan starts blasting from the record player. 

''Are you hungry?'' she asks leaving the vinyl sleeve on the floor and heading out of the room. 

His stomach has been complaining for several minutes now. 

''A little,'' he concedes. _I could eat two cows and all their future children._  

She brings out two bright blue bowls filled with potato salad and hands one to him, then she sits on the floor and starts eating hers. 

''I left some painkillers on the side table for you. I recommend you take them, you look like shit.'' 

He wants to be offended, he does, but he knows that if he looks half as bad as he feels then she must be right. 

''So how did you end up...'' she motions vaguely towards him. ''You know... Like this.'' 

Ryan lets out a loud sigh. ''If I'm honest I think all my troubles started when I moved to London the winter of 1964...'' 

She snorts. 

''What.'' 

''Oh man you sound like my dad when he's telling stories about the war. So dramatic. It must be all that teenage angst bottled up inside you.''

He tries to suppress the shiver that travels through his spine at the mention of the word _war_. Then he remembers he's just been insulted.

''Hey! I'm twenty three!'' he protests sticking a spoonful of the salad into his mouth. It tastes good, sweet and salty at the same time, kind of like Z. 

''Sure you are, _baby face_. Sure you are.'' 

''You asked what got me like this, right?'' he pauses a bit, just for the effect, and then he launches his arms forward in a theatrical gesture. '' _Life_ got me like this, the goddamn sixties did this to me.'' 

 _I truly am a victim of the decade. No one can deny that._  

Z laughs. ''Did the sixties also made you dress like that?'' she wiggles her eyebrows. 

''What's wrong with my outfit?'' If there is something Ryan is terribly proud of besides his music and his favorite guitar, it's his clothes. He spends generous amounts of time in front of the mirror everyday figuring out the best scarf combinations. One of the things he misses from London has to be shopping in Carnaby Street. 

''Too many beads,'' she points at his neck and wrists. ''Too much paisley. The headband... You are trying too hard. Aesthetics over convictions. You look like a hippie poster boy.'' 

''Are you calling me a poser? What makes you think my ideals aren't aligned with my choice of clothes?'' This girl surely knows how to press his buttons. 

''You... just seem to have changed a lot since New Y... since you were playing solo. New band new style I guess, am I right?'' 

Ryan folds his arms ignoring the dull ache that hits him and manages to look both comic and fabulously offended at the same time. 

''I like change, alright?'' 

She shrieks and he rolls his eyes because yes yes he realizes he just made a pun without meaning to. The first song from the EP he had released with _The Raconteurs_ after Christmas was called _Change._ Change change change, that's what he likes. Period. 

''Anyhow, I think your arms and legs will heal soon, I'm more worried about your chest, I hope you don't have any broken ribs.'' 

''I think I'm good. I just need some good ol' whiskey and a bit of rest— '' Whiskey. He promised Gerard he would bring him some good Scottish stuff he had brought home from Europe. He hasn't seen him in over a year, the illustrator has apparently been pretty busy working on top secret business in Frisco...

 _God knows what he's been up to._  

And just like that it clicks. That's what he's doing in California. The guys. Frisco. Jim and the music festival. He wants to slap himself. 

''I doubt whiskey would be the smartest move right n... why are you smiling?'' 

''Because I've just remembered why I'm in the west coast!'' He laughs maniacally. He is _fine_. Just a moment of short term memory loss due to the concussion, but he's okay. No permanent damage. And that's a relief, he was starting to worry he wouldn't be able to play live anymore if he was going to be forgetting his own lyrics.

''Are you playing any shows with the band 'round here?'' she goes and refills both their glasses with water. Coming back with two beers under her arm.

_There's the good stuff._

''No no. I promised Jim that I would show up at some festival down in Marin County you know, play a couple of songs. I'm supposed to meet with some friends in Frisco first though.'' _And try and check on Allen._

''Jim from The Doors?''

''Yes.''

''Oh you must mean the Fantasy Fair Festival.'' That's all everyone has been talking about in town these days.

He nods.

''Groovy. I'm going too. Everyone is going. This summer is going to go down in history, mark my words,'' her eyes get glossy with the excitement.

The music gets a bit louder by the time the record gets to _Just like a woman_. Z stands up and turns the volume down a notch.

''So you have friends in San Fran? I would never have guessed.''

''Why does everything you say to me feel like a veiled insult?''

''I didn't mean it like that.'' She makes a dismissive gesture like she isn't sorry at all and doesn't offer any other explanations. ''You should really try and remember what happened to you,'' she opens her bottle and takes a big gulp. ''Whoever left you at that beach could be dangerous,'' she cleans her mouth with the back of her hand and crosses her legs on the rug, ''I don't usually have time for cops, but you are famous, it doesn't seem very wise to leave it unreported.'' She raises her head and looks at Ryan. ''You honestly can't recall a thing?''

''I told you. My life has been going downhill ever since I moved to London in 1964. I should have stayed in... '' _In California, you should have stayed in California and carried on writing,_ he thinks. ''I should have stayed at home.''

''I know I said I wouldn't kick you out but if you carry on with that angsty nonsense I think I'm going to have to reconsider.'' Ryan makes a face but shuts up.

She glances at the daisy shaped clock hanging from one of the walls. Next to it there's a big picture of _The Beatles_ last album: _Sgt Pepper's lonely hearts club band._

Ryan follows her gaze and smiles.

''When I landed in Heathrow that February, the first question anyone asked me was _Beatles or Stones_? Not, what's your name? Where are you from? It was always that, Beatles or the Stones? My answer seemed to be of vital importance. It felt like whatever I said would seal my fate.''

They stay quiet for a while to the point that Ryan wonders if she's heard him at all. _God she is pretty,_ he thinks again. You would be forgiven for expecting a writer to be able to come up with something better than _pretty_ , but that's the word that keeps popping into his mind over and over. Pretty. With that short white dress. A nymph from the forest. He wishes he had one of his notebooks with him.

''So which one is it?'' she asks.

''Uh uh?''

'' _The Beatles_ or _The Stones,'_ ' she clarifies.

''Is there ever a right answer...'' he sighs. In four years he had come to the conclusion that no, there isn't. No matter what you say someone will hate you for it. And this doesn't just apply to music. Every topic is a sensitive one these days. Everything is polarized.

''Oh there is, trust me,'' she nods excited. ''Please don't tell me you are a Keith and Mick boy or I'll have to kick you out of here for real... Tennessee would kill me if she finds out I'm keeping a Jagger boy in our headquarters,'' she smirks. ''She's very particular about this kind of thing.''

He stutters. He shouldn't care what she thinks about him but he does. He knows he can just head off into town and call one of his band mates, or his manager even, and they will organize everything, a doctor check, a flight back home... But he much rather stay at Z's house while he can't remember what the fuck has happened to him. A wave of sadness and nostalgia embraces him when he registers just how lonely he truly is without Spencer around.

''Where is your room mate right now?''

''Don't worry, she's visiting her parents in San Diego. She will be gone for a few days.''

_Why are you so relieved._

''But,'' she lifts a finger, ''I'm still waiting for an answer to my question.''

''I do think everything the Beatles have done and achieved so far is awesome...'' he admits.

''Good answer,'' her smile brightens her whole face.

''But...'' he continues. ''There's this song Jagger and Richards have been working on lately for their upcoming album, it's called _She's like a rainbow_ I think, and it's amazing. It sounds like a fairy-tale.'

_It could have been written about you._

She huffs. She doubts there's anything the _Rolling Stones_ can do that will ever surpass the Fab 4 in her eyes but she doesn't argue.

''Do you know them well? The guys from The Stones?''

''Yeah, we got acquainted when I was living in London,'' he doesn't add anything else not wanting to anger her with his tales from the good old Albion.

''Uhmm.''

''I've met your beloved boys too,'' he teases her. ''Funny guys, especially John. I have quite a few anecdotes I could share with you,'' he adds. He wants her to like him and it bothers him, he isn't one to worry about what other people think of him.

She gives him another non committing uhmm.

''Quite a selective memory you have,'' she ends up saying and regrets it immediately.

Ryan picks up on her surprise and without missing a heartbeat he grins.

''Are you going to keep on and on about us having met in the past? Sorry that I can't remember you. I see hundreds of people everyday you see.''

She folds her arms and refuses to meet his gaze. She truly doesn't know how to keep her mouth shut, does she now? Maybe Tennessee's idea of buying her a parrot for her birthday wasn't such a bad one after all. She could have it on her shoulder at all times and it would shush her whenever she is about to run her big fat mouth.

 _I can't believe this patronizing asshole_ , she thinks.

''What did I sign a concert ticket for you or something?'' he pushes. ''I'm sorry if this somehow kills the crush that you obviously have on me.''

Z stands up abruptly and grabs her bowl snatching his empty one too. For a moment he thinks she's going to slap him, he knows he deserves it.

Ryan can't see it from where he is sitting but he hears her roughly handling dishes. Banging drawers, opening and closing a tap.

''I told you,'' she says closing a drawer. ''I'm not a fan.'' More dish crashing.

After a while she comes back to the living room drying her hands with a pink tea towel.

''Anyways, you are not my type,'' she sneers.

Ryan laughs with his mouth wide open wolf like showing a series of perfectly lined white teeth. It hurts shaking like that but he can't help it. _Feisty this one._

''Yeah right. I'm everyone's type,'' he smirks.

Z rolls her eyes.

''And you are humble too! So many talents.''

''You have nothing to be ashamed of sweetheart. Girls throw themselves at me all the time,'' he assures her. ''It's always been that way.'' And as far as he can remember he is telling the truth. ''It's the hair I think.'

''Tell me the truth, do you speak because you feel you have to or because you love hearing the sound of your own voice?'' she asks annoyed.

Ryan ignores her bitter remark.

''Even the bb...'' he stops his rant shocked of what he was about to say. _Way to go Ross._

She lifts an eyebrow. ''Even who?'' she asks.

He is mortified. ''Nothing.''

She smiles knowingly but doesn't inquire any further. Not that it's any of her business.

When he sees her smile Ryan folds his arms tightly. _Ouch, not a good idea._ And gives her a defying look.

''You look cute when you sulk,' she points out. If Tennessee doesn't buy her that parrot she is getting one herself.

''I thought you said I wasn't your type,'' he scoffs.

''You aren't. I like my men more rugged,'' she says in a flirty tone. And as an afterthought ''And my girls pretty, so I can play with their hair and kiss their cheeks.''

Ryan chokes on his breath.

''Your... girls?''

Z ignores him and goes to turn off the turntable instead.

_Well that's uh interesting._

He wonders if he could get away with writing a song about her or if she would chase him around the country with a gun. He guesses the latter. _I wonder how many women have slapped Dylan after he slagged them off in a song._ He laughs to himself. _I bet a lot._

''It's the eyes,'' Z says suddenly.

''Sorry?''

''Your eyes. They make you look dreamy.''

''Thanks.'' He smiles.

_Did you hear that? You look dreamy Ross. Hell, of course I do._

''It's not a compliment _baby face_.''

His smile fades into a shadow of a pout. Then she seems to remember something and she giggles.

''What are you laughing about?'' he barks still frowning over her insult.

''When was the last time you talked to a _Beatle_?''

Ryan stops for a moment to think. He hasn't been in the UK since before Christmas, ''I don't know... a few months ago.''

She tiptoes towards him him lowering her voice to a conspiring tone.

''Have you heard about the _Our World_ broadcasting happening at the end of the month?''

''Sure I have'' he says. Gabe had been pestering him for weeks insisting that he could get him a spot in the broadcast if he wants one. _Think of the publicity_ he had said! _A worldwide broadcast! For the first time! And the Beatles will play too! Give me a song Ryan, give me something and I can get you a spot._ His manager isn't anything if not persuasive. Ryan knows that Gabe is telling the truth, he most definitely can get him in, but he isn't sure he has time for some stupid TV program, international or not. He has an album to write and a drummer to locate.

''I have a copy of the song they are going to be playing live. It's a new one.'' She stops talking, waiting for his reaction, but he is too absorbed thinking about how he is going to bring Spencer back from whatever hippie commune he has been hiding. _That's next week's problem_ , he tells himself.

''It's so groovy,'' she adds.

''I'm sure I've already heard it before, is it from the Sgt Pepper B side sessions?'' he says dismissively just to piss her off.

''No.'' She claims folding her arms. ''Would you like it to hear it or not?''

Ryan looks up to her, her big eyes shining. He knows when to admit defeat. ''Yes, I'd love to.'' _Let's see what Lennon and Macca have come up with now. Those crazy motherfuckers nailed it with their new album._

''Awesome. But that will have to be later because now I have to go.''

 _She's leaving??_ Ryan doesn't want to be alone. He is badly hurt, can't she see? What a bad Samaritan. Tricking him into thinking she's going to look after him and then leaving him to his own miserable devices. ''Go? Where? Am I not good enough company or what?''

''Out obviously.''

''You are leaving me here alone? Aren't you afraid I steal your stuff?''

''You are Ryan Ross,'' she states. ''You have money, why would you steal my stuff!''

_She's got a point._

''True but...'' he tries to come up with an excuse for her not to leave him, but he can't find one.

''I'm going to be late,'' she says nervously checking the clock again. ''There's a key to the house on that plate over there, in case you'd like to wander around if you think you can walk without falling on your face. It's a gorgeous day out there,'' she smiles glancing through the window.

She notices Ryan's disappointed face and she adds, ''Look, you can tell me all about your London story when I'm back tonight, okay? There's food in the fridge if you get hungry and... and...'' she tries to think what else he might need. ''Have you ever been in Venice before?''

Ryan nods. _A long time ago, it feels like another life._

''Cool.'' The last thing she needs is to babysit a rock star and take him on a sightseeing tour too.

''Where are you going?''

''To meet the girls of course!'' she grins. ''Band practice!''

Ryan looks so taken aback it's almost funny. ''You are a musician? Why didn't you tell me!''

Z puffs. ''Oh what was the part that made you think I wasn't? Was it the piano? The guitars? Or was it me being a girl?''

''I...''

''See this is the problem with _boys_ like _you_.'' Ryan frowns. He doesn't like being called a boy. He doesn't like it at all. ''You underestimate women all the goddamn time. If I was a dude you would have already asked me if I play any instruments, but... ''she can barely contain her fury, ''but because I'm a girl you assumed I might want to have sex with you instead of talking about music.''

Ryan blinks slowly, once, twice. _Again, she isn't wrong._ He knows he should say something to salvage the situation. But Z interrupts him before he even tries.

''Anyways, not that I'm surprised.'' _Men really are stupid._ ''See you at dinner time _baby face_. There are towels in the bathroom, I suggest you have a shower and clean yourself. There is puke on your shirt.''

He looks down and makes a face. _Gross._

Z opens the door ready to leave. ''And try not to get your ass beaten again!''

''Hey, no one beat me up!''

''Sure they didn't,'' she blows him a kiss and closes the door with a loud bang behind her.

The moment she vanishes Ryan sighs with relief and covers his face with his hands.

_She is crazy._

One minute later he notices how silent the room has become and wishes she would come back.

 

 

*      *      *

 

 

He jolts awake to the sound of invisible bullets. His right arm is stiff because he fell asleep in a bizarre tangle of limbs. His mind is cloudy. _I feel like if I've been sleeping for a week._ He intuitively searches for the time and soon enough the big daisy informs him that he has only been out for two hours. He yawns and stretches a little. _It must have been those painkillers._ He feels better, still pretty much sore but less on the verge of dying.

He sits down and runs his hand through his hair. Everything is quiet in the small condo. He stands up, careful not to lose his balance this time, and he walks towards the record player. He takes Bob Dylan's _Blonde on blonde_ off the plate and puts it back inside its sleeve. There are five wooden baskets with quite the record collection. He looks through them trying to find something he's in the mood for. _I bet she won't have anything by The Kinks._ He finds Velvet Underground's _Sunday Mornin_ g and he decides that that will do.

Soon enough the first lullaby notes start pouring from the speakers and Reed's voice follows right after.

 _Sunday morning_  
_Praise the dawning_  
_It's just a restless feeling_  
_By my side_

 _It's just a restless feeling indeed,_ Ryan thinks.

 

He looks around. Now that he is standing he can see that the living room looks cozy, lived in but tidy, with a feminine touch to it. There is a big Persian rug in the center and the couch he has been lying on for the past few hours matches with it in color and patterns. He can't find a TV anywhere and he wonders if the girls just can't afford one. He's about to open the lid of the piano when he remembers he still has puke all over his shirt.

Z had told him there were towels waiting for him somewhere so he takes his expedition a bit further in a quest to find the bathroom. He opens one of the doors that lead to the living room but it turns out to be a bedroom instead. The walls are covered in posters, Bob Dylan, a couple of small Warhol prints, Jimi Hendrix and, of course, _The Beatles_. Two flower crowns rest hanging from an electric guitar and he assumes that must be Z's room. He closes the door and opens the one next to it. Score.

The bathroom is squeaky clean and it smells of a hint of lemon. He has forgotten the last time he's washed in one that clean outside of hotels. _This is what you get for being a shitty boyfriend. Cold meals, an empty over decorated house and a bathroom that doesn't smell like fruit._

He flinches when he sees his reflection in the mirror. His hair sticking out in odd directions, his wild curls refusing to stay in place. He takes off his headband and studies his face. He has been lucky for the most part with only a cut here and there on his cheeks. Big dark bags highlight his hazel eyes but that's nothing new, a badge of honor in this day and age.

He untangles his scarf and lets it fall on the floor, it stinks. Once his shirt is off he looks at the offensive stain with a frown _. I can't believe I've puked on myself._

He starts off the shower and, while he waits for the hot water to come, he removes the rest of his clothes. He gets under it as soon as he sees the steam. It feels good. He lets the stream run all over his face and hair hoping that it will wash away some of the shame. He has been beaten up good but what hurts the most is his pride. There is something to be said about showers and water in general, they have always felt therapeutic to him, perhaps a reaction to growing up in the desert.

He grabs a shampoo bottle and opens it up to sniff it. _I'm gonna smell like a chick_. He shrugs and starts washing his hair. The moment the soap reaches his body he winces in pain. His legs are covered in cuts and bruises and his chest is swollen, he groans thinking of how long it's going to take for everything to heal. _At least my fingers feel fine._ And Jon says he isn't an optimistic guy!

Ryan steps out of the shower and dries his hair quickly leaving the headband off this time. His trousers have seen better days but they don't look too bad, his new paisley shirt however, looks disgusting. He tries running it under water to wash the puke away but nothing seems to work. He eventually gives up with a sigh and wanders out of the bathroom into Z's room leaving small drops of water everywhere. He goes to her closet in hopes of finding something he can wear. After a bit of rummaging he mutters an ''Aha!'' and takes out a plain white t-shirt. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice informs him that maybe he should feel a bit embarrassed that girl clothes fit him but he shrugs it off. It's a clean t-shirt, he's not about to complain.

Once in the kitchen he opens the bubble gum pink fridge looking for something to eat, but there is nothing resembling real food in there. Fruit, vegetables, rice...

_No wonder she is so skinny. They call this food?_

He grabs one of the shoes he has left forgotten in the bathroom and checks one of the soles. He hastily takes out two wrinkly ten dollar notes. At least he still has some money on him. _Old habits die hard_. Spencer would be proud of him.

He looks for the key Z has left for him and he steps out into the sun.

 _She was right, it is a beautiful day indeed_. The canals look as charming as ever with the rays of sunshine reflecting on the water. There is an old lady next door sitting on a bench, enjoying the warm afternoon.

He walks towards the beach looking for a convenience store humming some tunes. _I pulled into Nazareth, was feeling 'bout half past dead... I just need some place where I can lay my head..._ he gets lost in his own thoughts whistling and walking around. Despite his sorry state he is in a good mood.

He stops his wandering when he sees Lawrence Lipton's house in the horizon. If he pays enough attention he can hear them. Echos of another life. In certain ways an easier one. He had some good all nighters in that house for sure, reading poetry, talking about changing the world through literature. Drinking every word Jack and the rest were willing to share. He doesn't entertain nostalgic thoughts often but lately he's been wondering how his life would have turned out if he hadn't pursued music, if he had remained a writer. _Beat Generation's genius child_ they had called him. He smiles letting melancholy embrace him for a minute. George Smith was buried a long time ago.

When he finds a store he goes straight for the snacks and grabs two chocolate bars and today's newspaper. He checks his pockets and, as expected, they are empty, so he picks some Marlboro Reds too. While he's waiting in line to pay he sees a bunch of small notebooks in a corner and decides to take one too. The shopkeeper recognizes him straight away.

''Mr. Ross!'' he beams. ''I can't believe it! What an honor!'' Ryan gives him an uncomfortable smile and puts his items on the counter.

''How is that new album going?'' Ryan sighs. Everyone wants to know when he is going to release new music. Why can't they just enjoy what he's give them so far? They put out an EP in December for Christ sake! Labels were putting so much pressure on musicians to publish material constantly. Even _The Beatles_ didn't seem to have escaped the fever, releasing sometimes two records in a year. Insane. Of course he wants to write new material now that he's got the band together but... everything on its own time. He hates being rushed.

''It's going,'' he answers handing him the money. He signs a piece of paper for the man's son and gets out as quickly as he can.

The sun is a bit lower now and he can't see properly, he puts a hand over his eyes and looks at the beach. He can smell the salt and the sand from there. He wonders if a small stroll down the boardwalk could help him remember the night before. He takes a cigarette out and shakes it against the package a bit before putting it between his lips. He lights it up, his hand suddenly trembling. The walk did him good but now he's starting to feel dizzy. Maybe due to lack of sugar, maybe because he got his head kicked in.

_The beach can wait._

He heads back to Z's house hoping she's already there. He is slightly disappointed when he sees she isn't and notices the turntable is still spinning without making any sound. He turns it off and lets himself fall on the couch chocolate bar in hand.

In the newspaper it's all articles about new bands popping up like weed, politics and promises for the summer. There is an article about some riots in Boston on the front page and a piece showering the Fab 4 with compliments, claiming that _Sgt Peppers_ is here to change the world. He groans. No word about how they have been heavily influenced by _Freak Out!_ And _Pet Sounds_. Classic.

On page seven he sees his name. Ryan Ross is solo no more reads the headline _._ The journalist is giving their EP a two star rating. Two! He looks down and immediately recognizes the signature: BB. _That snobby motherfucker riding my dick again._ He almost doesn't want to read it.

 _Ryan Ross is back ladies in gentlemen! After almost three years of silence the prodigal son has come back home with a new entourage of four. They call themselves The Raconteurs. Hardly original if I may, but then again who is original these days. Was Dangerous Blues just a one time success? His new material couldn't be further from his roots. After listening to tracks like the cheesy Change and the boring Take a vacation! one can't help but wonder if the reason he has decided to release them with a band is because mediocrity is easier to swallow when shared with other people. His attempt to rock n roll is embarrassing at best. Take my advice, Mr. Ross, and stick to you what you know. Perhaps taking a permanent vacation from music shouldn't be completely off the table._ BB

He looks at the offensive review with a sour taste in his mouth. Truth be told he isn't surprised, that elusive BB has been insulting his musical efforts for the last six months. His articles are always vicious, almost personal. Sometimes Ryan thinks that the only thing BB hates more than his music is Ryan himself. He even had the nerve to comment on his clothes once!

The EP had received excellent reviews all around Europe and the States, he shouldn't really worry about some crazy snob who is out to get him. But it annoys him. He doesn't even know him.

_He's probably just an old sad loser that has nothing better to do with his time than obsessing over the musician of the moment._

_Why don't you release a song and we see how you do asshole._

He turns the page frowning. More and more articles about music, some claiming the American youth is losing their way, others encouraging teenagers from all over the country to head to San Francisco.

And then it's Vietnam. Casualties. Updates. Johnson's promise of increasing the troops in Asia. There is a picture of a soldier with clear eyes and a hat that says _War is hell._ He gulps throwing the paper on the floor. He rests his elbows on his knees and lets his head fall on his hands with a shiver. _You can't avoid thinking about it forever._ Two weeks prior he had received a letter in his house in Summerlin. Uncle Sam was calling. He had been drafted. Him. Sent to the trenches. In a few months he will be in Vietnam and he hasn't even told his bandmates yet. Hell he has been pretending that letter hasn't happened for the last fourteen days. He tries to fight back tears and grabs his hair in a fist.

_Come on, be a man. Be a man._

He exhales.

He stands up and makes his way to Z's room hoping she doesn't mind him borrowing her Les Paul. He places it on the couch and removes his new notebook from his back pocket.

He scribbles a few lines fast, afraid he might forget them otherwise. _And then she says she can't believe, genius only comes along in storms of fabled foreign tongues, tripping eyes and flooded lungs..._

The guitar is tuned, he tentatively tries a few strings until he feels comfortable with the sound. They feel soft under his touch, malleable. He closes his eyes and starts to play.

 

 

*      *      *

 

Rehearsal had gone well with the girls. Z is proud of the songs hey have been writing lately. They have found their sound. She thinks they will be ready to record a demo soon. She has been working on a song for the last couple of days but she is stuck with the arrangements. I _should show it to Brian, see what he thinks I should do, that geeky pumpkin knows what he's doing. Or maybe to Ryan._ She shakes that thought off her mind fast. 

 _That paisley walking advert needs to leave my house as soon as he can walk without collapsing._  

She still doesn't know what made her bring him in. She wasn't thinking. Clearly. Her train of thought was that one should always help old friends, even if said friends have turned into pretentious assholes. _Forgetful assholes more like it._ She huffs. Ryan had forgotten about New York. Of course he had. 

The moment she inserts the key in the lock she hears it. The guitar. Her guitar. 

She opens the door carefully and looks in the direction of the sound. Ryan is facing the window but she can still see his face, his eyes are closed and he looks concentrated on running his fingers through her favorite guitar, teasing it, making it whine for him. Part of her feels slightly violated.

The melody is sensual and melancholic, his long fingers picking at the strings with a precision many could only dream of. It sounds like a story. A story reaching its peak.

She watches him swallow thickly with a hint of disdain, trying to blow away his stubborn fringe from his face. His throat vibrates and she wonders if he is humming the notes. A, B, C, D, E, F... He stretches his neck a bit more revealing three small moles that form an inverted triangle pointing downwards like an arrow, towards his white t-sh...

''Are you wearing my t-shirt?''

The music comes to a halt and Ryan turns around scared out of his skin.

''You scared me!''

''You are wearing my top,'' she answers matter of factly.

He smiles sheepishly. ''Sorry, my shirt looked disgusting and turns out I'm not very good at washing.''

She isn't impressed or, if she is, she is very good at hiding it.

''I don't appreciate you going through my stuff,'' she says. Then she points to the Les Paul still in his lap, ''and my guitar too!''

Ryan frowns and quickly sets the guitar aside taking the t-shirt off in one swift movement.

''What on Earth are you doing?'' she screams.

''Giving you your precious t-shirt back,'' he answers.

There is a big purple bruise on his right shoulder and a lot of ugly scratches over his lower back. Besides that his skin looks smooth, hardly sun kissed. He is very thin, thinner than he looks with his clothes on, his clavicles sort of jotting out like carved marble. And she is staring.

Ryan cocks an eyebrow, questioning.

''Put it back on!'' she snaps dropping a bag on the dining table. ''I've brought some dinner.'' She glances at the shredded newspaper laying on the floor but doesn't say anything about it. ''How are you feeling? Did the painkillers work?''

He nods, shivering a little. Z gives him a pointed look. ''I said put the damn t-shirt on Ross.''

Ryan smirks. ''Why. Am I making you nervous?''

She hits the table with her fist and looks at him. ''The only thing making me nervous is the possibility of you catching pneumonia and me having to play the good nurse the whole month.''

He puts it back on with a grunt and sits by the table sniffing the air. Whatever she has brought smells really good. He's starving.

''How was the rehearsal?'' he asks going through the bag and taking chicken wings and some fries out.

She smiles unable to help herself. ''It went great! We have already finished five songs! Five!''

''I'd love hearing you guys play sometime. How do you call yourselves?''

''The Like.''

''That's a good name,'' he admits. _A much better one that Raconteurs actually._

''I know!''

There is something different about Ryan. Yes now he can walk and he seems less in pain, but there is a veil in his eyes. Even when he is smiling or being rude to her, there is a hint of sadness hanging in the air, tainting everything he says, shining through his every move.

She goes into her room and after a few minutes comes out with a radio cassette in her hands.

''As promised,'' she announces and then presses play.

Ryan stops eating, confused. He grows even more perplexed when he hears the first chords of the Marseillaise. He keeps nibbling on a wing about to ask why they are listening to the French anthem during dinner, but then a chorus of voices start singing _Love, love, love._

 _This must be the song,_ he thinks. He senses a Lennon vibe straight away. He puts the wing down and just listens.

 _There's nothing you can do that can't be done._  
_Nothing you can sing that can't be sung._  
_Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game._  
_It's easy._  
_Nothing you can make that can't be made._  
_No one you can save that can't be saved._  
_Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time._  
_It's easy... All you need is love._

By the time the song finishes he has tears in his eyes and he is trying really hard to sniff them away. Z is watching him silent, tilting her head to the side like she is considering something, but whatever it is she doesn't bring it up.

''That was...'' he says rubbing his face on his arm to hide any evidence of emotion.

''I know,'' she says with a nod.

They somehow fall into an easy silence afterwards. Eating dinner peacefully without any snarky comments. At some point Z goes to one of the cabinets and gets a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses.

''So... tell me then,'' she says sliding one towards Ryan. ''How did you end up half dead in our beach?''

Ryan sighs, chewing on a fry. ''I still can't remember the exact events that... led to this rather... painful situation, but I can assume without a shadow of doubt that I can trace it back to 1964...,'' he cuts himself off before she starts hitting him with the bottle.

''Go on'' she encourages him.

''You really want to hear it?''

''Why not.'' _Maybe while at it I will figure out what happened to that kid I met in New York._

''Alright then,'' he smiles a little. Shyly even.

He empties the whole glass in one go and starts refilling it. ''On February of 1964 I landed in London and, let me tell you, the weather was fucking awful...''

 


End file.
